A few weeks ago, Will had a birthday.
My parents called to say that his card was going to be late. They had to buy it. And get a stamp. And drop it in the mailbox. This is hereditary, as the one thing I cannot manage to do is go to the Post Office. I would rather run ten miles of dusty hills.
The days pass and I head to the UK for work and one morning I wake up to receive this email from Will:
Attached is a picture of the card I just got from your parents. When I open it the card plays unchained melody. Your parents know I don't like them like that, right?
I emailed my mom to find out what the deal was.
Oh, your dad sent that, she wrote.
So it actually was SlackDad hitting on my husband.
It turns out it was 105 in the midwest and they had no power for days, so being in your late 60s + heat exhaustion, he ended up sending Will the birthday card he had gotten for my mother.
It's like 18th century drunk texting.
Happy Anniversary SlackMom & SlackDad!